


White flowers

by moon_hedgehog



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 12:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13364724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: Harry lost the dearest thing he had.





	White flowers

**Author's Note:**

> I suddenly reremembered my old Drarry headcanon, in which Draco had uncontrollable nature magic;  
> then somehow things got messy and angsty.

Harry is not broken.

Around him Hogwarts – postbellum, smeared with black soot and crow feathers, twisted and half ruined, filled with groans and weeping. Ashes are waltzing in the air, covering the earth with a coal blanket, filling the lungs and don’t let breath freely. The lake is filled with gloomy rotting, the trees creak with dead silence. The world is plunged into an irresistible grief; it crawled under each stone, absorbed in every blade of grass, devoured the sun and destroyed the light.

Harry can’t hear anything said to him. He’s seeing faces – exhausted and stained, bloodied and tearful. All of them are passing by him with blurred spots, all of them are too insignificant and miserable. He doesn’t focus on Hermione’s wavy hair and quiet voice; he doesn’t focus on Ron, whose lips are trembling with the experienced loss; he doesn’t focus on people who’re giving him oblique glances. They are afraid to approach him because he – their hero, their savior, the freaking boy-who-lived – is dangerous. Because he’s a battered dog sitting by a dead fountain, because he’s barely audible whining with pain, because he lost the dearest thing that he had.

 

Harry remembers like it was yesterday – once it rained. He was running away from the Quidditch field, with his nose ungodly squishing, with wet mud on his shoes. Hogwarts greeted him with warmth and comfort; only one of the corridors was deadly cold. And of course, Harry slipped there.

Malfoy was a mess. He curled up in the furthest corner, under a frost-covered stained-glass window, clinging to his hair and swaying from side to side. He was crying for sure; but didn’t let out a moan nor a single sob. He didn’t notice Harry and was hardly noticing anything around. His magic uncontrollably burst out, without the slightest help of a wand.

And Harry, of course, couldn’t pass by. His breathing spilled out of his mouth with white curls; arms barely noticeably pricked from the cold; but not giving a damn about his possible frostbite, he sank down beside and took the Slytherin’s hands in his. He shuddered and raised his head – Harry was almost sure that now he would be trampled down and humbled. But the blond silently and sharply leaned forward, weightlessly touching his lips and immediately recoiling.

Then he was only Malfoy.

 

A year later he became Draco. Harry remembers that they were lying by the lake, very close to the edge of the water; and both were perfectly, hella happy. He wove a wreath out of scanty snow-white flowers and stoutly tried to dress it on his beloved blond head. Slytherin threatened, Slytherin laughed, Slytherin kicked; but the damn wreath eventually ended up on him, and Harry was kissing his neck, inhaling the smell of spring. In front of him was the one to whom he once presented his heart. They weaved the web of sun-sparkling moments, ignoring the opinions of others, world saving, and the whole Hogwarts.

 

Harry remembers that the only thing he thought about after Dumbledor’s death – was Malfoy’s betrayal. It scattered him on small pebbles, strangled the flowers of their love with a poisonous ivy. He tried to suppress the hatred inside, not realizing that it wasn’t the thing that ate his heart. It was _a worry._

When Harry fared at the Malfoy Manor, all he was trying to do was to catch at least the slightest sign of a traitor. The traitor was there – looking at him with an impassive face, like a gloriously trained snake. Harry’s world was staggering under his feet; yet, when the wands flew up, guided by their owners magic, he grabbed Malfoy’s hand and pulled to himself; so silly, childishly awkward and naive, as if saving his princess.

Malfoy didn’t thank him for this, but then he became Draco again.

 

Harry remembers that he missed out Ron’s amazed glance and Hermione’s soft smile. He clung to Draco as if they hadn’t seen each other for a century. He said that they could save Narcissa and Lucius; said that they would complete their mission; said a lot of things, yet practically didn’t believe in anything. He was tired. All he wanted was to grab Draco by the wrist and run far, far away, to where the war had never shaken the earth and the skies. Hardly such a place ever existed.

Harry said a lot more balderdash, always receiving silence in response. But one evening they were watching the fireflies dancing in the night, and he heard: “I will die for you.”

So when the Lord Voldemort had raised his wand, hanging over the weakened enemy, Draco didn’t doubt for a second.

 

And now Harry’s cradling Draco Malfoy in his arms, around him Hogwarts and blurry faces.

Harry is not broken. He is dead.


End file.
